The Library Encounter

CAMILLA'S POV

My toes curled against the chill of the hardwood floor in the upper hallway. My parents had given me strict, unyielding instructions before the sun even set: stay tucked away out of sight in my bedroom until dinner. Only then, dressed in whatever suffocating silk gown my mother had selected for the occasion, would I be formally and officially introduced to my terrifying future husband. But the heavy, echoing chime of the front doorbell shattered my resolve. I couldn't just sit in my room like a well-behaved prop while strange men stood in our foyer and decided the trajectory of my life.

Curiosity gnawed at my nerves, overriding my common sense. Dressed down in my favorite faded denim jorts and a simple white tank top adorned with tiny rhinestone raindrops, I crept out of my room. I moved silently, walking barefoot to avoid the creaking floorboards I had memorized over the years, until I reached the upper landing. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my chest against the wooden banister and peered through the dark mahogany spindles, desperate for a glimpse.

The massive front doors stood open to the humid evening air. My father stepped into view wearing his practiced business smile, with my mother trailing right behind him, beaming and radiant as if she were greeting royalty. Two men crossed the threshold.

I didn't need a formal introduction to figure out which one was Victor Di Rossi.

Any pathetic hope I harbored that he might be an aging, balding, soft-bellied relic of the old mafia vanished the second he stepped into the light. The man standing in our foyer shattered every preconceived notion I had built up in my head. Victor was tall, dangerously handsome, and carried an imposing weight that instantly sucked the oxygen out of the room. A tailored navy suit wrapped around a broad, heavily muscled frame. His squared shoulders blocked out the porch light, effortlessly dominating the space. His facial expression looked carved from unforgiving stone. He projected total, undeniable authority. He didn't even flinch or offer a polite nod when my mother greeted him with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Just looking at this hardened, in-control predator caused a severe knot of dread to tighten in my stomach. A stark, glaring reality crashed over me. I was barely two years out of high school. I spent my days sketching in the garden, painting canvases, and watching the rain wash over the estate. We possessed absolutely nothing in common. Yet, in a few short months, I was expected to marry this man. I would share his bed. I would be thrust into the role of mother to his two motherless children. A wave of nausea hit me.

Down below, my father gestured toward the west wing of the house. "Why don't we go into my private office? We can discuss the marriage logistics over a glass of my best whiskey."

Victor gave a curt nod. The men began walking down the hall.

This was my chance. I scrambled back from the banister, darted toward the secondary staircase, and practically flew down the marble steps. My bare feet slapped softly against the tiles as I sprinted down the corridor. I slipped into the grand library, closing the heavy oak door silently behind me. The library shared a wall with my father’s private office, connected by a thick wooden door. I tiptoed over to it and pressed my ear directly against the cool wood, holding my breath to listen.

Muffled footsteps sounded on the other side.

"This arrangement will benefit both of our families," my father said, his tone confident and businesslike.

"Have you informed Camilla about the arrangement yet?"

Hearing my name spoken in Victor's exceptionally deep voice sent a terrifying shiver straight down my spine. The sheer bass of it vibrated through the wood and rattled my ribs.

My father hesitated. I could hear the awkward shuffle of his leather shoes on the rug. "Yes. I spoke to her last night."

"And how did she react?" Victor pressed.

"Camilla understands that it is an honor to marry a man of your status," my father falsely assured him.

I bit the inside of my cheek, rolling my eyes in the dark. An honor. Right.

Victor caught the evasion instantly. His tone flickered with sharp annoyance. "That doesn't answer my actual question, Enzo."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"Let me make something clear," Victor continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous, demanding register. "She won't merely be a wife to warm my bed. I urgently need a capable mother for my two children. Someone who can handle the realities of my household. You do realize that, don't you?"

My father stumbled pathetically through his response. "Of course, Victor. Camilla is... she has a natural instinct. She is very caring and responsible. She looks after her young nieces and nephews all the time."

Blind, desperate assurances. My childcare skills were a joke. The last time I watched my toddler nephew, he fed me plastic dinosaurs while I let him eat frosting out of the jar. I had zero idea how to raise a child, let alone two grieving children belonging to a mafia boss.

"I can assure you," my father added, his voice pitching higher in his desperation to seal the deal, "Camilla will satisfy you. In every possible way."

My neck burned with profound embarrassment. Heat rushed up my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut, wanting the floor to swallow me whole. My father was basically guaranteeing my bedroom performance to a stranger.

"I need to make a call home," Victor said abruptly, cutting off my father's nervous rambling. "Vincenzo and I could use a quiet moment away from this to unwind before the dinner begins. It has been a long day."

"Certainly," my father replied smoothly. "Right through that door is the library. It is nice and quiet in there. We still have an hour before I formally introduce you to my daughter."

The blood drained from my face.

The brass doorknob of the connecting door began to turn.

Panic seized my chest. I scrambled backward blindly. My bare feet slipped against the Persian rug. I darted toward the darkest corner of the room and shoved myself tightly behind a tall wooden bookshelf. I pulled my knees in, pressing my spine into the corner just as the connecting door clicked open.

Heavy footsteps entered the library. The door shut firmly, trapping me inside with two dangerous mafia men. I clamped a hand over my mouth to quiet my racing breath.

"Jesus," a new voice muttered. Vincenzo. I heard the creak of the leather armchair as he dropped heavily into it.

Victor scoffed. He paced the room, his heavy footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. "This charade is exhausting. The man reeks of desperation. And his wife..." Victor paused, letting out a harsh, judgmental breath. "Mrs. Moretti acts like she belongs on a soap opera. God help me if her daughter's anything like her."

A spike of youthful indignation flared in my chest. My mother was intense, but hearing a stranger mock my family sent a flush of defensive anger through me.

Before my anger could fully form, Vincenzo chuckled. "Well, let's see what we're working with. Look at this."

I heard the soft clatter of something being picked up from the nearby side table. My stomach plummeted to the floor. The side table. The silver frame.

My father kept a photograph of me on that table. It was taken when I was twelve years old. In the picture, I wore a pair of bright red rain boots, a hideous polka-dot dress, and childish pigtails. Worse, I was smiling so widely that my unflattering metallic braces caught the camera flash.

"Charming," Vincenzo joked.

"Put that down," Victor ordered. His jaw visibly tightened with immediate disgust. "I feel like a creep just looking at it."

"She was a kid, Victor. Could be worse."

"I don't care," Victor stated bluntly. "She better have gotten rid of the braces. And those godawful bangs."

Hidden behind the shelf, my hand reflexively shot up. My fingers brushed the thick fringe of hair covering my forehead. I still wore those exact same bangs. I stubbornly refused to grow them out. My face burned hotter.

Vincenzo smirked, the sound of his amusement grating on my nerves. "I don't know, man. The innocent schoolgirl vibe might work for you. Give it a chance."

"I have no interest in that kind of girl," Victor cut through the air with a razor-sharp, definitive statement.

The sheer shock of his brutal honesty felt like a slap. The sting hit me so hard I physically flinched. My shoulder jerked backward.

My elbow slammed into a thick, leather-bound book resting on the edge of the wooden shelf.

The heavy book toppled over and plummeted to the floor.

*Thunk.*

The sharp, unmistakable noise shattered the quiet of the library.

The men stopped talking. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with sudden, predatory alertness.

My heart hammered frantically against my ribs. Terrified, I let go of my breath and tried to slip away. I kept my back against the shelves, inching silently down the narrow aisle, praying I could make it to the main hallway door before they found me.

I rounded the corner of the shelf.

A massive shadow suddenly loomed directly over me.

I gasped and stumbled backward in a blind panic. My foot caught on the edge of the heavy rug, and I pitched backward, colliding hard with a very solid body. Sharp pain shot up my spine from the impact. Large, unyielding hands grabbed my bare arms, steadying me with a force that felt like iron bands. A sharp scent of cedarwood, expensive whiskey, and pure danger flooded my senses.

I looked up, my breath catching painfully in my throat.

Victor Di Rossi stood right there. He towered menacingly over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the chandelier. His dark, fathomless gaze locked intensely onto mine with an unnerving, predatory focus. Up close, he was even more terrifying. The sharp, unyielding lines of his jaw, the dark shadow of stubble, the cold calculation in his eyes—it all overwhelmed my senses and pinned me in place.

My brain short-circuited in pure, unadulterated fear. I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, desperate to vanish into thin air.

"Sorry..." I stammered out, my voice sounding pathetic, weak, and trembling. "I'm so sorry, Sir."

Victor didn't say a word. He just stared down at me. His intense eyes swept over my frayed denim jorts, my bare legs, my bare feet on the hardwood, and then moved slowly, deliberately, up to my face. His gaze lingered heavily on my bangs. His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion.

Then, a stark, unmistakable flare of recognition hit his expression.

Our very first meeting was officially a total disaster.